


Starting (Staff of Life Remix)

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: remix_redux, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flour, water, magic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting (Staff of Life Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Proofing](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/577) by Tray. 



"Mac?" Joe's voice echoed in the dojo. The place was neat, everything carefully in its place, all the equipment cleaned and oiled and waiting for human hands and human exertion. But it was deserted. Joe made his way slowly across the polished floor; it seemed to take more effort than usual. He stood at the lift and sighed once, then entered.

 

The smell that had teased the edge of his mind as he stood in the dojo grew stronger as the lift rose to MacLeod's loft. Bread. Baking bread. Joe gripped the revolver in his pocket, telling himself that if Mac was baking bread, it was unlikely he was walking into danger. But his uneasiness and dread weren't banished by his first view of the loft.

 

Mac had been baking, all right. A thin dusting of flour covered everything in the kitchen, and grains crunched under his feet as he entered the loft, looking around wonderingly. The place was chaotic -- pans piled up next to the stove, the sink overflowing with dishes, a jumble of bowls and tubs covered with cloth. And everywhere there was bread. Bard. Baguette. Boule. Round loaves and flat squares. Buns and elaborate twists and braids. It looked like a damn bakery.

 

In the midst of all this domestic chaos stood Duncan MacLeod, quietly kneading a lump of dough. He stopped and looked at Joe for a moment, then stepped back from the counter and dusted off his hands.

 

"Mac, what the hell are you doing?"

 

But Duncan just smiled at him, and turned his back to pull a set of loaves from the oven. He set them on racks to cool, tossed the oven mitts into a basket close by the stove and turned his attention back to the dough, working it with the same economy of movement he used when he held a sword in his hand.

 

"Mac?" Joe said again, as Duncan seemed bent on ignoring him -- or maybe he'd forgotten Joe was there. Joe moved cautiously around the kitchen island until he was facing Duncan, who seemed completely absorbed in kneading the bread. Joe watched him for a while, trying to get a handle on what was happening.

 

Duncan MacLeod was the last immortal alive. A Gathering unprecedented in the annals of the Watchers had begun only a few short weeks ago -- _the_ Gathering, Joe now knew. And at the end of it, when all the challenges had been fought, and all the blood had been shed, Duncan had been the last one standing. He'd come through the battle, drenched in loss, defeated by his victory, and had withdrawn into his loft. Joe had waited for him to reappear, expecting -- well, he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. For Mac to emerge from his humble brick building and take on the mantle of the Ruler of the World? Or to announce it had all been for nothing; there was no Prize, not even a crackerjack token?

 

But nothing happened at all. Duncan stayed secluded in his loft, until Joe began to fear the worst -- madness, grief, suicide by his own sword. When Joe couldn't stand the suspense any longer, he'd come to see for himself. He hadn't expected to find Mac up to his elbows in bread dough, missing only an apron to complete the picture of busy domesticity.

 

Duncan divided the dough, deftly shaped the pieces into short fat rolls, placed them in loaf pans and covered them with a clean white cloth. He lifted a similar cloth from another raft of pans and Joe caught something glint in Mac's hand briefly as he slashed expertly at the top of the dough. As Duncan placed the pans in the oven, Joe saw with a chill that Duncan had cut a lightning bolt across the top of each loaf. Now that he noticed it, Joe saw that all of the breads, no matter what shape or how small, had the same lightning-slash across the top.

 

Smiling to himself in satisfaction, Duncan lifted an empty bowl from a stack on the counter, and began measuring flour into it.

 

"Mac!" Joe said, pounding his fist on an uncluttered section of counter. Duncan looked up, puzzled, as if surprised to see him there. He smiled brilliantly and nodded, then went back to work among his stores of flour and yeast and salt.

 

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" Joe said. When there was no answer, he snapped his fingers to get Duncan's attention, but Duncan just shrugged.

 

Joe watched in growing exasperation as Duncan moved among the bowls and pans, between the kneading board and the oven, the proofing yeast and the cooling bread.

 

"Come on, man, what are you doing in here? What's filling the place to the rafters with bread gonna do for you -- or for anyone?" Duncan glanced his way, but didn't stop working, and didn't say a word. _What about the Prize?_ Joe didn't say. All this time, it had seemed so important -- _the_ most important thing about the whole business of Immortals. _In the end, there can be only one._ It had been written into their skin with their Watcher tattoos. Well here was the _end_ and the Watchers were holding their breath, waiting. For the other shoe to drop. For the purpose to be revealed to them.

 

Of course the Highlander had won. Joe had always believed that he would. But this -- this was not what he'd imagined Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod doing after he laid down his sword for the last time. Baking? This was nuts.

 

"Are you going to talk to me, or what?"

 

Duncan gave a little shrug and turned to the ovens. "Or what, I guess," Joe said sourly. Duncan kept working, as if Joe wasn't even there. The man had gone completely loony.

 

Finally giving up in exasperation, Joe left Duncan to his manic baking marathon, and limped painfully to the lift. He felt so goddamned old. He turned and looked at his friend, his heart sinking in disappointment and in pity. The Gathering had undone him. If there ever had been a Prize, it was locked inside MacLeod's head.

 

Settling stiffly in his car, he drummed his fingers on the wheel. After a moment, he started the car, but instead of going home, drove to a nearby bakery. The fresh-bread smell inside the bakery made him dizzy for a moment. It was the same, but also, in a way he couldn't figure out, different from Duncan's bread-filled loft. He shook himself and walked up to the counter, and a few minutes later left with a half dozen different kinds of bread. He hadn't been able to stop choosing, though there was no way in hell he was going to be able to eat all this bread before it went stale.

 

Once home, however, he found he was ravenous, and soon his table was littered with wrappers and half-eaten loaves. He opened every cellophane package, slipped every hard-crusted loaf from its paper bag, sampled a crisp baguette, a caraway bun, a brioche, a thick slab of rye, a fruited pannetone, a sesame-seeded braid and a humble loaf of thick white bread. He washed it all down with wine, but ate nothing else. He fell asleep in his chair, with a fistful of pumpernickel in his hands.

 

He woke from a deep dreamless sleep just before noon, wondering for a moment where he was. His own place looked strange to him, and all he could think of was a loft filled with the scent of baking bread.

 

Duncan was still at it when Joe let himself back into the loft. He still refused to speak, but seemed pleased to see Joe, waving a flour-covered hand in cheerful greeting. Joe watched him work hard at his odd obsession, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing, and if there was any way on earth to get him to stop. He didn't look like he'd slept at all, but he didn't look tired. He looked almost feverishly alert. Expectant and eager, like a child before a birthday party.

 

"Mac, listen to me buddy," he said as Duncan took a rare break from his labors to stand looking out the window, his hands at rest for the moment. "You've got to stop now. Come with me, okay? We can go down to the club, have a few quiet drinks, and talk. What do you say?"

 

Duncan said nothing. He just shook his head, smiled a little ruefully, and took a polished plate from a stack on the shelves. Joe watched him set a place at a table he'd set up near the kitchen area, and started toward a chair, but Duncan waved him away from the set place.

 

"You expecting company?" Joe said grumpily, letting himself down heavily on the couch instead.

 

Duncan grinned, put down another place setting catty-cornered to the first, then began loading the table with plates of bread. No butter or jam, no cheese or meats, just bread, wine, and water. When the table was set to his satisfaction, Duncan returned to his work.

 

With a sigh, Joe settled in to watch him, as he had done for so many years. Maybe his old habits of observation and surveillance would yield a clue. He put aside the weirdness of Duncan's behavior and just concentrated on what he was doing.

 

Bread seemed like such a simple thing, Joe reflected, watching Duncan work a dozen batches of dough into small loaves.

 

But it isn't easy at all. First you need water, fresh water. And each place in the world has its own water, its own flavor and taste. A pinch of salt, not always available and a rare enough commodity that it was once used as currency. Then you need flour. And for _that_, you need more than raw ingredients, no matter how common or how rare. You need civilization, a community working together to till the land, to harvest the grain, to mill the flour -- all before the work Duncan was doing now could even begin.

 

Duncan pulled baking stones from his oven and stacked the newly baked bread on the counter next to a towering stack of golden loaves. The scent rising from them was almost tangible in the small loft, and despite his earlier gorging on the stuff, Joe's mouth began to water.

 

Duncan picked up an uncovered crock from the edge of the island counter and held it up for Joe to see.

 

"Yeast, yeah," Joe said. "Proofing." Equal parts water and flour, and right from the air, the catalyst to make it all work. A kind of magic.

 

Duncan nodded and carefully returned the proofing yeast to its corner of honor. He stood still for a moment, looking around at the kitchen as if surveying his work. He poured himself a glass of wine, stared at it thoughtfully, then looked up suddenly to meet Joe's eyes. He filled another glass and brought it over. Joe took it and Duncan raised his as if in a toast.

 

"Are we done now?" Joe said, hope creeping into his voice.

 

Duncan just smiled, and returned to the kitchen. Joe shook his head slowly. "Whatever," he said, and sipped his wine, watching. The warm smell of the bread and Duncan's graceful movements among the pans and flour and bowls lulled him, and after a while, he set down his glass and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

 

Joe woke with a start. Somehow, he'd fallen asleep on Mac's couch, and somewhere along the line he'd slid down into a comfortable position with his head buried in a pillow. Irritably, he struggled to sit up, reaching for his cane. He froze as he heard voices.

 

"What the--" Joe stopped, his mouth open.

 

Methos slouched in a chair at the table, at the place Duncan had set for him. He had a glass of wine in one hand and in the other balanced a delicate brioche, as if appraising its qualities. Duncan smiled and took it from his hand, and bent down to hold it to his lips. Methos bit into it, his eyes never leaving Duncan's face, and Joe sucked in his breath. In all the time he had known him, as Adam or as Methos, Joe had never seen a look like that on his face -- adoration, supplication, awe, and a kind of glad wonder -- all reflected back from Duncan's own face, and Joe tried to look away, feeling he shouldn't be watching; it was too intimate, too raw. But even as the thought formed in his mind, it was dashed by the cold realization that --

 

Methos was dead. He'd fallen two weeks ago, in a brutal and drawn-out battle with a challenger who had vowed to take Duncan next, a vow that proved fruitless.

 

"Methos--" Even speaking his name was almost too much of an effort. Joe wondered if he was dreaming, and if he should pinch himself awake. Both his hands remained clenched over his cane.

 

Duncan straightened, and Methos rose with him, and suddenly they were in each other's arms. Joe did turn his head away at that, embarrassed, but a moment later the Watcher in him made him look back, to see Duncan touch Methos's face softly, running his fingers down Methos's cheek and pausing at his throat, his thumb stroking near his adam's apple. Methos's eyes closed, and Duncan kissed him hard, bending him backwards, clutching at his shoulder, rucking up a handful of soft white sweater.

 

"Ah, God, Mac," Joe breathed. This had to be a dream. But whose? Come on, man, he thought to himself. Don't get metaphysical. It's gotta be stress. Or something. Maybe there was more than just wine in the glass Duncan had given him. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but his head felt thick, and he felt too weary to move. He closed his eyes -- for just an instant, he was sure.

 

But when he opened them, Methos was gone. Duncan was whistling in the kitchen, working dough into a pretzel shape. There was a small pile of broken pieces of brioche on Methos's plate.

 

Joe hauled himself up from the couch. "Time to head back to Kansas," he muttered.

 

* * *

 

 

Joe pulled his car into a space in front of Duncan's building and sat for a moment in the deepening twilight, rubbing his eyes wearily. He'd spent most of the day arguing with the Watchers to let him keep working on Duncan on his own, and the rest of it feeding another strange craving for bread. He'd eaten nothing else since he first stepped into Duncan's loft two days ago. Must be some kind of sympathetic lunacy, he decided, and let himself into the dojo.

 

The loft was dark, but Duncan didn't seem to notice, and didn't turn around when Joe switched on a lamp by the couch. Tonight the place was even more crowded with finished loaves of bread, the kitchen in even more disarray, and Duncan even more feverishly active. Joe's gaze was drawn immediately to the table, even though he'd convinced himself he'd been dreaming the day before.

 

The table was set for three.

 

Joe felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but ignored it and tried to get Duncan's attention. It wasn't easy. Duncan was so wrapped up in his mixing, kneading, and forming that he didn't seem to know Joe was there. He didn't respond to Joe's voice. If Joe stood in front of him, he dodged around him like he was a piece of awkwardly placed furniture. If Joe touched him, he paused, and looked puzzled, then continued with what he was doing. Finally Joe gave up. He started towards the lift, but the table again caught his eye and he made his way towards it. As soon as he hovered near one of the place settings, Duncan's head came up like a deer scenting a hunter, and he hurried over.

 

"You're scarin' me, buddy, you know that?" Joe said as Duncan looked straight at him for the first time since he'd walked in. He started towards the couch, but in sudden inspiration, pulled out a chair at the far end of the table, away from the set places. To his surprise, Duncan let him sit down. But he was even more surprised when Duncan hurried to the kitchen and returned, with a glass of wine -- and a plate holding a small bun.

 

"Thanks," Joe said, looking down at the plate Duncan handed him. The bun, like all of the breads, had a lightning bolt etched across the top. "So you finally decided I'm good enough for some of your magical bread?"

 

Duncan looked a him seriously, then sat down at the table with him. "Well, that's almost social," Joe said. Duncan didn't reply, but seemed to be waiting for him to eat, so he bit gingerly into the bun. It was heavenly, and Joe found himself wolfing it down -- and hungry for more. But Duncan, looking very much pleased, gestured towards the wine. As Joe sipped, he thought he saw a gleam in Duncan's eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

"Christ, not again," Joe thought as he struggled into wakefulness. This time he'd fallen asleep at the table with his head cradled in his arms. He rubbed his eyes and realized the staccato rhythm he was hearing wasn't in his head. Suddenly fully awake, he half rose from his chair as he made out two ghostly figures in the gloom, then a third. Methos emerged from the shadows to reach for a loaf on the table. He winked at Joe.

 

"Methos?" Joe tried to stand up, but Methos gently pushed him back in his chair. Laughter floated out of the gloom and the rhythm changed. Joe peered into the darkness. The figures drew nearer and he could see them clearly now -- Amanda dancing and swaying, laughing up at Duncan smiling down on her. He lifted her gracefully and spun around and around, as if they were the only two people in the world, alone at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Joe's heart pounded. This can't be happening, he told himself firmly. There was something in that wine. He glanced up; Methos was watching the dancing pair with an expression Joe couldn't quite put his finger on; somewhere between wistful and possessive. Joe wasn't sure if it was just Duncan Methos was seeing, or both of them.

 

Joe closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Joe opened his eyes to the sound of voices. "Third time's the charm?" he said aloud, feeling a chill in his gut. The last thing he remembered was Duncan, looking concerned, helping him to the couch. He must have drunk more of the wine or... something. Had Duncan broken out the Glenmorangie? Joe couldn't remember. But he must have drunk something stronger than wine. His head felt like it was packed with wet cotton. Slowly, as if he were feeling his way into his own body, he sat up, trying to see where the voices were coming from.

 

They were ringed around the table. Methos and Amanda. Richie. Fitzcairn. Darius. Some of them sat with their backs to him, so he couldn't see their faces. All talking animatedly, all with plates in front of them piled high with the lightning-scored bread. Joe tried to rise to his feet, but Duncan saw him, and smiled, and raised his wineglass. Joe nodded at him, feeling suddenly too tired to move, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

"He must be drugging me, is all I can think of," Joe said, reluctantly. The other Watchers listened intently. "There was nobody there when I came to in the morning -- and nothing but empty plates full of bread torn to pieces. The wineglasses were still full, and nothing else had been moved or looked like it had been touched. Except the bread."

 

"Why would he do it?" asked Marcy, a young woman who had only joined the Watchers the year before, but who was an expert on Duncan MacLeod, or at least, Joe thought wryly, on his files. "It doesn't seem in character for him."

 

"Yeah, but you're thinking of him before the Gathering," said Gil, a thickset man who looked like he'd feel more at home at a duck lodge. "It's a whole new ballgame now."

 

"Well, he's certainly throwing a curve ball," Joe said ruefully. "I don't know why he'd put drugs in my wine, but then I don't know why he's baking bread, either. But he's been doing it for more than a week straight, and I don't even know if he sleeps. He can't keep it up forever." Not quite true, he thought. He had certainly had enough money to keep going indefinitely. He wouldn't even have to leave his loft; he could order flour and salt and have it delivered. Joe shuddered. Of course, he'd eventually run out of room and have to cart the stuff away.

 

"We have to get him out of there," Joe said, feeling like he was stabbing his best friend in the back.

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey, Mac," Joe greeted Duncan with a heartiness he didn't feel. "What's up?" He winced at his own inanity. It was gloomy in the loft again. Could the man see in the dark, like a cat? The Watchers had decided to wait until evening, arguing it'd be easier to take an unconscious or unwilling prisoner from the building under cover of darkness. Joe sighed and snapped on a light.

 

Duncan was, of course, baking bread. Joe looked at the table. It was set for nine -- eight places close together and one place at the end of the table. He supposed that was his. The table was already piled high with bread.

 

Joe stood with his hands in his pockets. One hand fingered the phone that would bring the others rushing in. The other rested on the butt of a gun. The plan was simple. He'd shoot Duncan and they'd transport him to a special -- Joe's mind shied away from the word "cell", but that's what it amounted to -- at the Watcher headquarters in Seacouver. Joe carefully took in the details of the room, but couldn't see where Duncan's sword might be hidden. He knew he could shoot Duncan point blank -- he just wasn't sure it was going to have any effect. He'd been immortal before -- what if he was invulnerable now? Or worse, Joe thought uneasily, what if he was neither?

 

He probably has more than one sword stashed away, too, Joe thought. And there's that knife he's using on the dough. Plus he was strong enough to stop Joe in his tracks barehanded. This was a bad idea.

 

"Look, Mac," he tried reason one more time. "You can't keep this up. It's not healthy." To his surprise, Duncan gave an amused snort. "What are you going to do with it all, anyway?" He gestured irritably at the open window. "Pretty soon pigeons are gonna start roosting in here, for pete's sake."

 

Duncan ignored him, patiently shaping dough into a perfectly rounded circle. Joe lost his patience. "Damn it, MacLeod, come to your senses! You can't bake bread for the rest of your life!" He took a step towards Duncan. "It's all so pointless, it -- it just doesn't make any sense, can't you see that?" Duncan slid the round loaf carefully onto a baking sheet. Joe grabbed him by the shoulder, almost upsetting the sheet. Duncan shrugged him off, frowning in worry at his precious loaf.

 

That did it. "Duncan. I'm sorry, man." Joe pulled out his gun.

 

He didn't even see it coming. One minute Duncan was turning towards the stove, the next, he'd brought the baking sheet up, hitting Joe in the face and sending him reeling backwards. Then Joe's feet were kicked out from under him and he went down with an ungainly thud. And now he was on his back on the floor.

 

Duncan was kneeling over him, holding Joe's phone in front of his face. He didn't say a word, but Joe could read his expression just fine. He sighed. "Yeah, yeah," he said, and took the phone. Pressing a button, he talked into the phone. "Gil -- call off the others. We're back to the original plan. Yeah, that's what I said." He clicked the phone off and looked at Duncan. "You wanna help me up?"

 

Duncan frowned at him for a long moment, then held out his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Joe sat at the end of the table, the other eight places set for who knew what guests -- or what kind of guests. He made no protest as Duncan set down a plate with a small loaf of lightning-scored bread, and drank from the wineglass when Duncan placed it beside his plate. He leaned back in his chair, resigned to what came next, and wasn't surprised to open his eyes -- much later, to judge by the night sky beyond the open window -- and find himself in the midst of a party. They all laughed, and ate the bread, and kept glancing at him, but never spoke to him directly.

 

Seven of them: Methos, Amanda, Richie, Darius, Hugh Fitzcairn, Sean Burns, Gina de Valincourt. Joe felt depressed seeing all these people Duncan loved -- that _he_ loved, some of them -- who were gone, fallen in the recent Gathering, or long before. He wished the bread could bring them back to life, that the yeast was even more magical than they knew, that when he opened his eyes to daylight, they would still be here. He raised his glass to toast them all, and they raised theirs in return, smiling at him. It was enough to break his heart. He drank from his glass, rested his chin in his hands, and closed his eyes wearily.

 

* * *

 

 

"Wake up, Joe!" A cheerful -- and insistent -- voice said in his ear. Joe groaned and opened his eyes, blinking at the bright morning light that streamed through the windows.

 

"Mac?" he said, blinking furiously and sitting up -- he was, of course, on the blasted couch once again. "Mac, are you talking to me?"

 

Duncan was beaming at him. "It's done," he said.

 

"Done? Wha--" Joe held his head to stop it spinning. "The bread?"

 

"The Gathering. The Prize. It's done," Duncan said.

 

Joe just looked at him. He heard the tap-tap-tap of heels on the floor and realized there were other people in the room.

 

"All done," Amanda said, leaning down to give him a peck on the cheek. "With your help."

 

"Amanda!" Joe gaped. "But -- you -- I don't -- How --" He gave up. "What did I do?"

 

"You were the Witness," said Methos, coming into his range of sight.

 

"Witness?"

 

"Here, drink this," Duncan handed him a big mug of something hot. He curled his hands around it and sniffed at it.

 

"Just coffee," Duncan assured him.

 

Joe looked around at the faces of the other immortals as they gathered around him. "This isn't one of those waking dreams, right?"

 

"Right," Richie said. "We're back." Duncan smiled and Richie grinned at him.

 

Joe looked from one to the other. "So -- is this the Prize? You can bring back whoever you want?"

 

"Only seven."

 

"Oh." Joe searched Duncan's face. He seemed to have made his peace with that. It had to have been a hell of a choice to have to make.

 

"But the catch is," Methos continued, as if reading his thoughts. "Each of us can raise seven more."

 

"Oh," Joe said again. "So eventually--"

 

"Eventually we'll all be connected to Kevin Bacon," Methos said.

 

"Right." Joe laughed for the first time in what seemed like centuries, and felt a lightness in his heart he thought he'd lost forever.

 

Duncan had gone to the kitchen area and returned with a plate filled with small lumps of dough. "Starter," he said and held it out ceremoniously.

 

"Huh," Joe said. Duncan passed the plate around to the others, and Joe watched their different expressions as they took their pieces. Darius looked thoughtful. Amanda's eyes gleamed. Richie looked doubtful, and Methos's face, as he turned the dough in his hands, looked haunted. Fitz held his piece on his palm as if it were a rare gemstone, and as Sean took the small lump of dough from Duncan's hand, a look passed between them that Joe felt he would work on interpreting for the rest of his life. Gina received hers with a kiss for Duncan, which he returned with a rueful smile, and rushed immediately to the kitchen island to gather flour, salt, and water for her dough.

 

Joe sat back, disturbed. "So this is it? This is the Prize? To bring everyone back, start all over from square one?"

 

"No," Duncan said. He took Joe's hand and turned it palm upward. Joe stared as Duncan placed a small lump of dough into Joe's hand.

 

Joe looked down at it uncomprehendingly. "It's your starter," Duncan said, smiling. "It's a new game, Joe."

 

Joe's hand closed convulsively on the dough, and he felt tears start in his eyes as Duncan reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "A whole new game."

 

\--End


End file.
